Resting v2, Day 4

“What’s one thing you did today?” Today I thought some thoughts. Then I started thinking. Thinking about writing 1000 words. How does it feel to type all of them? Good? Weird? Tiring? Maybe 1000 is too many to repeat every day.

Lance of light, land loftily, show the way toward the light.

Maybe just writing lots of words is something I can get used to. Oof, ending sentences with prepositions isn’t good, right? On the other hand, it doesn’t matter. I’m not writing for correctness. I’m just writing to build endurance, to get used to writing lots of words. To be at ease with deleting less. Because I suspect that I delete out of reflex, but maybe my writing machine is tuned so that it isn’t as necessary as it was before.

Sometimes I’ll delete whole paragraphs. Sentences that misdirect, ideas out of order, lines that say a little too much. All of them gone with one click of a button. Montag says fire is clean, but backspace is clean. It’s the ultimate clean. Once deleted, what remains of digital letters?

At this point, I’ve probably deleted almost half of all I’ve written, maybe more. It’s easier to delete than repair. It’s easier to remove and erase than make sense.

The downfall of deleting: I say less. I say so much less. And I’m trying to say more. I want to practice leaving. Imperfect order and imperfect sentences are okay. Imperfect ideas are alright. Not everything needs to be perfect. Editing: What’s the point? A better grade? Better writing? And what’s the point of those things? Readers who understand what I’m saying? That’s a good goal. A better grade? That’s a good goal? I’m the only one who can say what I need to say.

I want to burn my notes from a certain class. I want to wash away all strife with forgetful glass. I see in my reflection the other me who chose not to take this course. Maybe the barrier removed will grant me entry. I will try.

A field of damp grass. Twilight. Witnesses smile down. My pile of notes glows dimly and rises above the ground. My effort concentrated; time poured out. I need no artificial flame to set them alight. A single word will start the blaze. I lean in close and whisper, “burn”.

The first sheet is instantly reduced to ashes and the flame leaps to the second page. A moment passes and the scene is bright with orange. Sparks alight on the darkening breeze. Words words words, leaving leaving leaving. Memories, receding, receding, as the fire wipes away my wrath. A moment more and the orange evaporates and the blue returns. All that’s left is glorious ashes of what I once scorned.

Maybe I’ll collect them in an urn and sprinkle them on my professor’s desk. A final parting. A funeral of just desert.

Okay, that was fun! Maybe I should write more of these. Would I have written this if I didn’t need to write one thousand words? Maybe this is a good way to learn to speak. I’m only halfway.

What if I give the editor a day off? Pop in the office, peek around the corner where he sits, straining his wits. “Hullo! Take the day off! Catch the train to the country and spend the day in the air. Here, have some money for ice cream on your way out.” Puzzled. “But sir, I haven’t finished these sentences! They’re all topsy turvy and riddled with needless words! Who will understand you if I don’t chisel and scrape and rake until they’re crisp as show-day poodles?”
“Don’t worry about that! No one is here for the sentences, anyway. But thank you for your concern.”
“Surely you don’t mean to publish them without my review!”
“Oh yes I do! The sooner the better. Now be on your way, and enjoy the day.” I lean out of sight before the next protest and skip down the stairs to the kitchen, where strawberry cheesecake awaits.

“Ifs this wghat freedom ffeels like?” I mumble through a rather large bite. A thoughtful pause to look out the window. A squirrel is re-inventing industry, and a snail is bedazzled at such lavish waste of energy. Maybe I’m neither of them. But this thought introduces a puzzle of pronunciation which I didn’t intend. Hm, too many questions, like “When is this set?” and “Where will it end?”. The bells above me chirp softly, reminding me that the day is still new. “Maybe I should take my own advice and get out for a while.” But the triality of this situation haunts me. “Who am I? The narrator, a character, the voice in my head? All at once, and none before the other?” I feel slightly overcooked, and my watch reads “math time!” so I’d better prepare.

An hour later, and I’m back to finish this. Oops, I didn’t re-enter the frame story. I guess it will have to wait. What if I did this every day? It’s a reoccurring thought every time I find something that works well. This has been fun, and I like the idea of writing a lot without worrying about editing. I already have a series going, and the idea was to rest, not write a silly novel. Still, there’s something about it. It’s the opposite of my process so far.

Idea: What if I started a YouTube channel? I’m not sure what the videos would be about, but I’m curious. I watch many great channels and sometimes I think that I could do something similar. I have equipment. Maybe what they’re about doesn’t matter much. I could make them for the joy of making them. What do I enjoy making? Maybe something about photography? Maybe something about playing games? There’s so many options (side note: Word thinks I should use “there’re” xD). What would making videos be like? Would I have a 15 second hyped intro and then cut to “hey guys, welcome back to the channel”? Probably not. Maybe I’d start at the beginning and then continue into the middle.

Looks like I’ve reached 1000 words. Maybe I’ll do it again tomorrow 👀